


Sympathetic Resonance

by sunaddicted



Series: Nygmobblepot Week 2k18 [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eye Trauma, Future Fic, Gen, Light Angst, M/M, Major Character Injury, Nygmobblepot Week 2018, Permanent Injury, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-03-29 21:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13935762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunaddicted/pseuds/sunaddicted
Summary: [...] Edward peeled back the sheets with care and climbed into the bed with the same grace employed during a heist, when at night he walked in the shadows cast by beautiful sculptures in the museum that had the misfortune of housing something that had caught his eye.My little magpie





	Sympathetic Resonance

**Author's Note:**

> You can pry from my cold and dead hands the headcanon that Edward and Lee are besties

_Sympathetic Resonance_

Edward stood by the bed, trembling hands dripping blood on the starch white sheets that still smelled of ammonia and disinfectant - spreading liquid rubies that seeped into the fabric of a burial shroud and stained it, getting entwined in its fibers and rusting over them in brownish speckles that looked like freckles.

Just like the ones blooming on Oswald's cheekbones and the bridge of his beakish nose, darker and more visible than usual because of the pallid greenish tint that was spreading like a malady under his skin: it looked like Ivy had gotten her claws in him, stretched the flesh open and poisoned it - but there was no hint of flowers and plants blooming along the bluish paths of faintly pulsing veins.

It wasn't a _natura morta_ , not yet.  

Nor was the reason why Oswald lay in an underground clinic bed, unconscious and drained, a mystery: the bandages wrapped around the right side of the man's head spoke a lot, the brown puddles of dried blood mixing with the yellowish density of betadine to keep what was left of Oswald's eye protected from any infections that would eat away at the organ until the socket was emptied out - gaping like Munch’s scream of despair towards the indifference of the world.  

He absentmindedly took the swab of cotton damp with rubbing alcohol that Lee gave him, a silent request to get cleaned up so that he would offer a less macabre spectacle - or maybe she was just annoyed that he was staining the cleanest set of sheets they had been able to find. Thinking about it, the second option was the most probable one and Edward swiped the swab over his hands, methodically cleaning his skin; he knew that there still would be blood hidden in the corners, under his fingernails, in the creases between his fingers - something that only a thorough scrubbing with medical-grade soap and steaming water would get rid of.

Maybe lady Macbeth wouldn't have gone mad if she had had those items at her disposal.

“He'll be fine”

“But not really”

“Not really” Lee concurred. She had done everything in her power to make sure that the Penguin didn't die under her hands while she was operating on him; she had relaxed, once she had taken stock of the fact that the man's brain hadn't been involved in the accident - that the damage extended only so far as his eye.  She had also had a moment of brutal honesty with herself: Lee was no expert when it came to eyes, such delicate organs that she had never operated on - not on a living body, at least.

She couldn't save the Penguin's eye, not even if she wanted to - for Edward's sake, because she had taken an oath.  

“What's your prognosis?”

“I'm not an ophthalmic surgeon”

Edward turned towards his friend - it still was strange, thinking of himself as someone who wasn't alone and who had a net of support “I know but I trust your judgement” he offered her a small smile “I'll take it with a grain of salt” he reassured, trying to ease the pressure on her shoulders.  

Lee pursed her lips in deep thinking, watching the man on the bed: she had never seen the Penguin so still; Oswald Cobblepot was an energetic man - agitated, passionate, loud. Coming from him, the quiet was so unnatural “His vision will definitely be impaired. A lot - but I won't be sure to what degree until he wakes up and we can test him” tentatively, Lee reached out to wrap her hand around Edward's bicep and squeezed, finding that the physical display of comfort would do so much more than just empty words “He's resilient”

“He deals a lot less peacefully with his disabilities than he lets on” Edward knew he had been one of the few people in the world who had been made privy to Oswald's struggle with chronic pain, how something apparently insignificant - such a slightly higher percentage of humidity in the air or an uncomfortable chair - could make it so much harder to endure, forcing him to turn to the relief offered by painkillers “I don't want him to have to get used to another one”

“He might just need a pair of glasses”

Edward echoed Lee's politely muffled snort at those words “He would never wear them” he affirmed with certainty, a tired smile playing on his lips “I think he would go for a monocle” Edward added, hearing Oswald's voice in his mind remark that a monocle would make him look quite distinguished - he wasn't inclined to disagree with that, it would fit right in with the three-piece suits and pocket watch. Edward reached up and laid his hand over Lee's, caressing the worn knuckles in thanks “Go and get some rest”

“You too" Lee immediately retorted “Try to, at least” she amended before her friend could point out that he would never be able to sleep, not with his lover unconscious and just out of a tricky and delicate operation.

“Alright" Edward couldn't make any promises - wouldn't lie to her just to make her feel better: she would read right through him. When he heard the soft noise of the door clicking closed, Edward bent down and mechanically got rid of his shoes and put them under the bed; then he unknotted his tie, ruined in patches where Oswald's head had rested against his chest on the drive over to Lee's clinic, and he draped it over the back of the chair to dangle in the air smelling of disinfectant together with his belt; his suit jacket followed, neatly folded even if it already was creased.

He was as undressed as he would ever get in a makeshift post-operation room.

Despite the fact that he knew that Oswald wouldn't be waking up any time soon, having personally administered his lover both anaesthesia and sedatives, Edward peeled back the sheets with care and climbed into the bed with the same grace employed during a heist, when at night he walked in the shadows cast by beautiful sculptures in the museum that had the misfortune of housing something that had caught his eye.  

 _My little magpie_.

That was how Oswald called him, whenever he found him preening in one of his hideouts amidst his growing collection or when he presented him with a particularly shiny piece of jewellery - Edward wouldn't be caught dead admitting that he loved the nickname: magpies plumage shimmered green in the sun.  

Fitting in the small stretcher without nudging Oswald wasn't an easy task but despite his height and his long limbs, Edward was good at folding himself so that he would occupy as little space as possible; an unfortunate gift from his abusive childhood, spent hiding in his own home from his own parents - it had been easier back then, his joints hadn't protested so much. But he managed and when he lay his head on the pillow, there was a sliver of space between them: not so distant that Edward couldn't feel the warmth radiate from Oswald's body, but not even so close that he could hear his heartbeat.  

Edward reached out, fingers caressing their way up to the back of Oswald's hand until they wrapped around his wrist, digits blindly looking for the raise of a vein, the steady thrumming of a pulse.

And like a sympathetic string on a _viola d'amore_ , his heart started vibrating at the same frequency, slow and steady until Edward was lulled into a light sleep, exhaustion dragging him down in a dreamless darkness.  

**Author's Note:**

> "Natura morta" is just how you say still life in Italian; it literally translates to "dead nature" and since I was talking of Ivy's powers, I thought that the Italian word sounded better lol


End file.
